


colors of the clouds

by bellewa



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Fluff and Angst, France (Country), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Les Mis!AU, M/M, On the Run
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-06
Updated: 2020-04-06
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23513485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bellewa/pseuds/bellewa
Summary: In which Dean Winchester (prisoner sixty-seven) breaks his parole, saves a man, runs across France, cares for a little girl named Claire, and falls in love. Not necessarily in that order.(No knowledge of Les Misérables is needed for this story.)
Relationships: Castiel & Claire Novak, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Claire Novak & Dean Winchester
Kudos: 2





	colors of the clouds

**Author's Note:**

> based on a blend of les mis musical/brick canon that branches off after the first part.

_Clang, clang._

The sounds of the _Bagne de Toulon_ rung in his ears, familiar and true, just like the stench of misery. Hope was a rare thing in such a place like this prison, but today, it burned alive in his heart like an inferno that swallowed the darkness.

“Prisoner sixty-seven. Step forward.”

Dean Winchester strode up, chin high and eyes blazing. He ignored the throbbing ache on his wrists from the shackles. All he could focus on was the yellow ticket of leave in Michael’s hand. 

_“Monsieur,_ ” he bit out, ingrained memories and scars of labor boiling under his skin. Ten _fucking_ years of imprisonment for stealing a loaf of bread. The law was bullshit. The prisoners knew it, the guards knew it, hell, even Michael knew it.

But if he had a chance to do it all over again, Dean would do it in a heartbeat if it meant Sammy could eat.

“Do you know what this ticket means, _bagnard?”_ questioned the head guard. Michael’s nose crinkled, like he was regarding Dean as mud on the soles of his feet. 

It only pissed Dean off more. His fingers itched to punch the man’s face. “Freedom,” he answered through his teeth. “The way out of this damn hell hole.”

Michael sneered. “Freedom?” A grin slowly spread across his face. “You may be free of the chains of Toulon, prisoner sixty-seven, but you will forever be shackled as a _bagnard._ It shall be a curse on your soul—your very own Mark of Cain—as well as the scars on your back.”

Dean’s jaw ticked. A fantasy of reaching out and strangling Michael’s throat flickered in his head. “I ain’t got all day, you son of a bitch." His hands twitched. "Give me the damn ticket.”

Stepping forward menacingly, Michael fisted Dean’s shirt with flashing eyes. “How dare you speak to me like that—you are nothing but street urchin _scum.”_ His spit flew on Dean’s face, but Dean would be damned if he broke to this bag of dicks. “God has a special place for you in hell when you die, _thief.”_

“See you there, bitch.” Dean smirked, and Michael shoved him away, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. _Good riddance._ Once he got his hide out of Toulon, Dean would erase his life of douchebags like Michael.

“Uncuff the prisoner, Castiel,” Michael said to the guard at his side, thrusting the keys into his hands. “See that he does not cause any more trouble.”

“Yes, _monsieur.”_

Dean watched Castiel warily as he unlocked the shackles. Castiel was quieter than the rest of _them_ with a stoic and calm demeanor that irked Dean somehow. It was easy to push the buttons of bastards like Michael, but people like the assistant guard? _Freaky_.

When the moon was dim in the darkest corners of the _bagne,_ sometimes Dean would look up and see a sharp, bright blue in the guard’s eyes. The blue reminded Dean of the past—the blue of his mother’s nightdress the night before she died, the blue of Sammy’s books, and the blue of the Seine.

He hated it because _blue_ reminded him of _home._

And how could Dean dare think of _home_ when he got himself stuck as a jailbird? When the world bit him in the ass when he was just trying to save his only family?

When _home_ was the only good thing in the sea of hate in Dean’s heart? He was drowning in it, the dark abyss flooding over all the cracks and remaining light in his soul.

Castiel handed Dean the yellow parole papers. “Good luck, _Monsieur_ Winchester,” said the guard, voice deep and almost a growl. There was a bone-deep weariness etched into his face, something that the prisoners and guards alike seemed to share. Toulon sucked the soul out of every one of its inhabitants. 

Dean must have stared at the _bleu_ longer than he should have because the guard tilted his head in confusion. He flicked his eyes away. Dean immediately scrubbed the blue away from his mind. It was time to forget his past and look into the future. If there was one, anyway.

The gate slammed behind him with a _clang._ He inhaled, the air clear and crisp compared to the pure rotten of Toulon. 

Dean watched the sun slowly rise, beams of light covering every inch of the land. With his freedom in hand and hell behind him, the day could finally begin.

_We’ve got work to do._

***

Dean gripped the measly amount of coins, the bronze _sous_ cool on his calloused hands. “This is _half_ of what the others got!” he spat out, hurling the coins at the man. Red licked the edges of his vision. In the boiling hot fields, Dean had worked twice as hard as the others. This is why he could never allow himself to hope; hope is for the pure and untouched, unlike Dean.

Raphael scoffed. “Why should you get the same as the other, _honest_ men like me? You convicts are all the same. You should be grateful for my charity.”

“Listen, dickwad." Dean struggled to rein his temper in. "You don’t know anything about my life,” he spat. If it was worth calling it a life. “Give me my damn money.”

The man gave him a scrutinizing look, then held something out at the corner of Dean’s vision. “Do you see this yellow ticket, prisoner sixty-seven?” he said. Dean tried his best to suppress a flinch. “Kill me and you’ll not only be a thief; you will be a murderer as well. Is that what you want?”

Dean’s jaw clicked. He hated this. When he received a ticket on the last day of his imprisonment, he thought the yellow meant freedom.

 _Yellow_ meant employers paying him half of what he deserved. _Yellow_ meant no money, no food, and doors slammed shut. _Yellow_ meant fear dawning on their faces. _Yellow_ meant being a fucking abomination, despite only stealing a piece of bread.

 _Yellow_ meant being doomed to perdition.

Dean could practically feel the shackle around his neck from his years in the chain gang. He had been trained like a dog to _follow instructions_ and _look down,_ but this wasn’t Toulon anymore. Dean's eyes squarely met Raphael’s.

"Fuck you." 

Raphael snorted. "Collect your scraps and be on your way, Winchester. Don't come back tomorrow," he said with some finality. He stepped away at once, heading down the path.

 _Right._ Digne wasn’t Toulon, but it sure felt like it. 

“Sure is better than looking at your fugly mug tomorrow,” muttered Dean. His neck flushed as he picked up the coins. He wasn’t about to waste the few _francs_ he could get.

Dean roamed the streets of Digne, surveying possible places to sleep for the night. Each place pushed him out with the same old excuses of _sorry,_ _we’re full for the night_ or _surely someone else_. He wasn’t stupid—everyone saw him as a goddamn _cur_. 

It wasn't until he walked by the church (of all places) that he found a place to say. " _Monsieur_ ," said a man dressed in what Dean thought was priestly clothes, "why don't you come in? We're about to start dinner."

Dean balked. He never believed in the Big Guy (Sammy did, though), and somehow, he felt like he'd burst into flames once he crossed the threshold. _Heh_. There was too much shit in his past for God to ignore.

But the logical part of him that sounded like Sam resignedly said, "Yeah, sure." Dean was too tired to get pissed off at the tones of pity in the priest's voice.

The priest smiled. "Come on in, brother." He pushed the doors open, revealing a modest praying area (how do you friggin' describe churches?) and a young, redheaded woman that Dean would have chased after before Toulon.

"Have we got room for another plate, Anna?" asked the priest.

Anna raised her eyebrows. "We barely have enough for everyone, _Monseigneur_." 

He stared at her for a few moments, and some understanding must've passed between them because she sighed. "Fine. I guess we can have one more."

Her gaze slid to Dean. She seemed to study him, peeling several of the defensive layers he'd built like a softened onion. Instead of the usual fear or suspicion, there was a certain drooping of her eyes and downturn of the mouth that screamed _sadness_ . Anna pitied him just like the priest. _Christ_. He wanted to lash out at them. Dean didn't need their goddamn puppy dog looks. He felt itchy all over, too hot in some places and too cold in others.

 _Why are you helping me?_ said a small voice in his mind.

Before he knew it, he was led to a table with about ten plates laid out. Anna sat on his left, and the bishop settled across from him. The others eyed Dean with the same look. _What the fuck_. Was this a Catholic thing? Maybe he should be one of those _Huguenots._

Soup was ladled into a bowl and offered to him by a nun called Jo. He nearly groaned with happiness. It was a plain soup, just some warm broth with some other stuff thrown in, but it was the best damn thing he'd ever tasted. 

Dean didn't even notice that the bishop was saying a prayer. It was only when he cleared his throat, a small grin tugging on his mouth. 

"Sorry," grunted Dean. Even after ten years, John Winchester's lessons on respect were drilled into him.

"It's all good, brother," replied the man, waving a hand. 

Anna cleared her throat pointedly. Dean muttered something under his breath and then backed off the bowl, a reminder that he was a human being and not a hungry animal on its first kill of the season. Those lines were kind of blurred if he thought about it.

The bishop finished the prayer and ladled more soup onto Dean's bowl. "Have more, brother. You need it more than us."

The sheer _kindness_ of the man set off alarm bells. Dean's eyes narrowed. He learned early in life about the black of humanity from John and later on, Toulon. People who were kind? Most likely had an agenda or something to gain.

Then again, Dean had nothing except for some _sou_. He wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he grunted his thanks and continued to eat.

Anna gave him a sideways glance. "Tell us about yourself, _monsieur_." 

The gears turning in his head came to a stop. "There's nothing to say, _madame_." Hackles immediately went up. 

Dean reached for a piece of bread across the table. His sleeve rode up, and he could feel his stomach drop. Marks from the shackles were clearly visible, and Dean quickly yanked his sleeve down. Humiliation made his neck flush.

Jo gasped. “Are you from…” she began, cutting off when the priest shook his head.

“Anyone is welcome here, Joanna. Our mission is to help those who knock on our doors.” 

Dean shoved more food in his mouth. Maybe the priest wasn’t so bad after all. But he still wanted to eat as much as he could, just in case he would be kicked out or something. No one treated prisoners like humans and that was a fact.

Anna poured him a glass of water. “ _Monseigneur_ Lafitte is a good man of God, _monsieur_. Trust him when he says you are welcome.”

“Yes,” agreed Jo, and suddenly, three pairs of eyes were on Dean. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, swallowing his broth and letting their words sink in. Something warmed in his chest, golden from the kindness from complete strangers. After letting a few beats pass, he held out his hand. “My name’s Dean. Dean Winchester.” It felt pretty damn good to omit the prisoner sixty-seven and the yellow paper. 

“Benny Lafitte.” He shook Dean’s hand and smiled. “Feel free to stay as long as you need, brother.”

It was one of Dean’s first _human_ interactions in nearly a decade.“Thank you.” The way Benny looked at him, like he was a person and not a convict, chipped away the stone walls erected in his chest.

Maybe he was worth something, after all. Maybe there was a future in store for Dean Winchester.

And maybe, just maybe, it was okay to _hope_.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading <3 tell me your thoughts, lovelies. will be updated soon :D


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